“CURYLL!” I jumped up and down in excitement. My friend trudged up the hill toward Da and me. Our summer-long trek through Britain was over. Da and I would spend the cold months with Curyll’s foster father, Lord Ector. As we had all eight winters of my life.
Autumn had come early this year. I awoke this morning to find dew had frosted on my blanket. The rags binding my feet barely kept the frost off my toes as we walked the final league to Lord Ector’s home outside Deva.
The air smelled of cold, wet, salt.
“Winter chases the wind like a hound on the heels of a hare,” I sang, trying very hard to make my voice sound like the wind in the trees. Da did that much better than I.
I didn’t want to think about the many hundreds of people who had no shelter or food this winter. Here in the Northwest we were secure from Saxon raiders. Soon I would be warm and safe. Safe from the Saxons and from the Christians who threw rocks at Da and me.
Four huge hunting dogs galloped around my friend Curyll in circles that moved forward and sideways at the same time. As usual, the three brown hounds looked to the larger, shaggy black-and-gray Brenin as their leader. Brenin looked to Curyll for direction.
Joy at finding my friend alive when storm, disease, and Saxon raiders claimed so many, wasn’t enough to warm me. I longed for the heat of kitchen fires — any fire, even one of my own making. But Da didn’t allow me to show off that trick. My bouncing almost warmed my nearly numb feet while I rubbed my fingers against my hide cloak. I’d missed Curyll terribly this past summer.
Curyll lifted a hand in mute greeting to us. He had another name, one that I could never remember. I didn’t want to remember our real names and didn’t like my own.
Real names are what parents use when they are angry at you. I’d seen my Da in a rage once. I didn’t want to see him that way ever again.
“Another half hour to Lord Ector’s stronghold, little Wren. Then we’ll be warm,” Da said. His deep voice seemed to sing each word. He didn’t need the harp he carried in a satchel on his back to make music. But everyone recognized the harp as a symbol that transformed us from beggars to bards.
I had learned eight fun ballads this past summer. One for each year of my life — not quite the nine complex history ballads required to call myself a bard. Four of my songs I could sing all by myself — the other four I needed a little help remembering all the words and to cover the notes I couldn’t quite reach. Maybe tonight Da would ask me to sing a solo.
“Blow your nose, Wren.” Da handed me a square of almost clean linen. He wasn’t angry that my nose ran with the cold or that I had fussed and whined all afternoon.
“The Wind whistles through the heather, telling tales of the cold ocean sharpening its teeth.” I chanted a line from another ballad. The tune didn’t come out of my raw throat as easily as before.
Clear blue skies sparkled in the afternoon sun. But the weight of clouds building to the West gave me a headache. Damp salt in the air burned the raw patches on my nose. By sunset the storms would come. We would be snug and dry in Lord Ector’s fortress before the rain beat the last of the harvest into the ground.
Da folded my small hands in his huge ones and rubbed some feeling into my fingertips. This gesture of love did more to warm me than bright fires.
“May I ride on the back of Brenin, Da?” I asked politely.
“You are much too big, my Wren.”
“I rode him last year.” I tried very hard not to thrust out my lower lip and screw up my eyes in an ugly face. I used to do that all the time until Da made me look into a still pool so I could see what I looked like. Ugly. Scary. I saw more in the pool than my own scowl. I saw Gwaed, the god of blood, Tanio, the element of fire, and myself grown old and sad. But I didn’t tell Da that. I didn’t want to scare him.
“Ho, M-Merlin!” Curyll’s voice echoed across the moors. I didn’t expect my friend to say anything and was surprised at the clarity of his words. Had he practiced speaking with one of his foster brothers? Most likely Lancelot the stinging bee, Curyll’s best friend in the world. But if Stinger was busy, then probably Bedewyr, Ceffyl the horse as we called him, or Cai the nearsighted boar had listened politely while Curyll formed each word with time-consuming care. Of all of the boys at Lord Ector’s stronghold, Stinger, Boar, and Ceffyl were closest to him in age.
Curyll had used Da’s traveling name rather than his real name — that was reserved for the other Druids. We were all birds. Merlin, small falcon. Curyll, a much bigger and fiercer hawk. And I was the little brown Wren, not much to look at, but a very sweet singer — I hoped. The other boys had animal names. They weren’t birds. Bards and birds were special.
“Curyll.” Da waved to the boy. “Good hunting today.” He pressed my back, urging me forward. I ran ahead, eagerly.
Curyll wore hunting leathers. A brace of birds hung from his belt. He’d slung two more across his back on a thong. He smelled of sweat and earth and crushed grass. A bright cap confined his usually tangled hair. The late afternoon sunshine peeking beneath the growing cloud cover picked gold and silver out of the sandstone color. I never tired of watching sunlight dance colors through his hair.
Lord Ector wouldn’t let Curyll have lessons because he didn’t speak. But Curyll could trounce all of his foster brothers with sword and lance. His big hands seemed just the right size to cradle a fledgling bird without ruffling a feather. And he always treated me with kindness when his foster brothers were too rough with a small girl child who didn’t belong to the fortress.
I knew Curyll was as smart as his foster brothers. They tolerated his supposed stupidity because he was the orphaned son of a respected warlord. I loved him for himself.
Curyll greeted me with a hug and picked me up and swung me in a wide circle. Only thirteen, he carried me easily. His back would be almost as good to ride upon as one of the shaggy dogs who stood taller than I did. He smelled better than wet dog fur, too.
“Sit beasts!” Da said to the dogs. Brenin and the other hounds continued sniffing Da’s leather leggings and boots, catching up on all the gossipy scents he’d gathered in the last year. “I said sit!” Da fingered his gold torc with his left hand and pointed at Brenin’s nose with his right. All four dogs sat and stared obediently at Da.
Curyll and I giggled. No one else, including Curyll, could command the hunting hounds so well.
Our joy at seeing each other couldn’t overcome my cold. I sneezed. Messily. But Curyll didn’t flinch or drop me in disgust. He shifted his grip on me so that I could wipe my nose once more.
While I mopped my nose and his shoulder, he spoke again. “Ll — Lly — ,” he stopped, unable to force out the next words.
“Did Llygad have puppies?” I asked, noticing the fifth dog missing from the pack. Llygad belonged to Boar, but she, like the other hounds, looked to Curyll as leader of the pack.
He nodded, smiling that I understood.
I giggled at the prospect of playing with a dozen wiggling bundles of fur.
A deep frown replaced Curyll’s grin, and he set me down — not ungently, but with little warmth.
“I didn’t mean it, Curyll. I laughed at the puppies, not you. I promise I’ll never laugh at you.” I spun in a circle on my toes to seal the promise. Circles have no beginning and no end, and neither does a promise. He hugged me again.
“Come.” Da herded us toward Lord Ector’s caer. Long shadows stretched out from the battlements. “The sun is near to setting and clouds gather. We’d best hurry or miss our supper.”
“A-ah-” Curyll halted our progress. He blushed and gulped before making elaborate motions with his hands. He signed the cross of the Christian god, then placed his palms together in front of him as if in prayer.
“Priest?” Da interpreted.
My stomach turned cold. I had thought Lord Ector would protect us from the Christians who threw stones.
Curyll nodded at Da, then made motions as if eating but then stopped and made the signal to halt.
“Has Ector invited a priest to supper and we must stay in the kitchen?” Da’s face turned dark with an anger that frightened me. His blue eyes, the same color as the sky at midnight, darkened to the uncertain froth of a storm-ravaged sea. (I’d heard that phrase in one of Da’s hero ballads and liked it.)
Curyll hung his head in apology. I edged toward my friend and tried to hide behind him. As I edged around, I noticed he didn’t wear his warrior’s torc about his neck. A torc was more than a piece of jewelry. The circle of metal was a symbol of manhood and a person’s status in the community. Warriors never removed theirs. Curyll had won his last autumn in a tournament. Boar hadn’t won his torc until a month later. Stinger and Ceffyl were a year younger, and I didn’t know if they had won theirs yet or not.
Da grasped the fat end of his own golden torc in a familiar gesture. His grip seemed to help him master his anger. His temper hadn’t sent magic flying from his fingers. He continued, “Why a priest, Curyll? Your foster father has always been faithful to the Goddess and the old ways.”
Curyll pointed to his tongue and dropped his gaze to the heather.
“I should have expected this, Curyll. You near the age of manhood and will claim your inheritance soon. Lord Ector must be desperate for you to learn to speak properly. He’s invited the priest to exorcise a demon from you.”
Exorcise. I didn’t like the sound of the ugly Latin word. What would the priest do to Curyll? I hoped it didn’t have anything to do with stones.
Da glared at the increasing clouds streaked with the red of suns as if they were responsible for the priest and Curyll’s stutter. Slowly his eyes cleared and brightened. “I have been remiss in allowing your impediment to continue so long. Has the priest arrived yet?”
Curyll shook his head.
“Perhaps we have time. The storm might delay him.” Da continued to scan the skies for answers.
I tugged on Da’s cloak. “Curyll doesn’t have a demon in his tongue. The kitchen cat stole the spirit out of it.”
Da lifted one eyebrow at my comment. I loved that gesture and tried to imitate it. I couldn’t do more than twist my face in a grimace.
“I told you so last winter, but you didn’t believe me,” I replied, wanting to stamp my foot in frustration.
Laughter lit Da’s eyes. I loved how he looked when he did that. Their deep blue color invited me to gaze deeper into his soul and trust him.
“Yes, you did tell me that, Wren. Perhaps you are right. I must study the cat.”
“I can tell the cat to give it back.”
“Can you now? Then we must hurry.” Da gestured to Curyll. They each took one of my hands and lifted me high as they ran down the hill laughing.
o0o
Merlin clasped his daughter’s hand, checking for signs of fever. He hadn’t liked the way she had dragged behind him all day. Normally he and Wren chatted and laughed together as they walked through Britain, observing the world. Her childish sense of wonder gave new perspectives on commonplace events and sights. But today Wren had refused to find delight in an arrowhead of geese flying south. She had complained of the cold instead.
Now she sneezed, and her nose leaked. Her palm remained cool but moist. If she ailed, the sickness hadn’t settled yet.
With a sigh of relief he nodded to Curyll and together they swung the little girl above a tussock of grass. She squealed with delight. Another sneeze and a cough followed hard upon the heels of her giggles.
She mustn’t be sick. Not now when he thought her grown beyond the dangers of early childhood. He’d almost lost her twice in her first five winters, once to a terrible hacking cough and fever that kept her in bed nearly an entire winter, and once to a terrible wasting sickness that had besieged half of Britain the summer she turned two. Only his skill with medicine had saved her. Wren was so very precious to him, he didn’t know how he’d continue without her.
Curyll was special, too, but to protect Wren, Merlin would forsake the boy and all of the other young men he monitored. Wren — Arylwren, a pledge. He’d promised to protect this child at all costs.
She giggled merrily as they set her back down on the ground. like her usual cheerful self.
Merlin’s heart swelled with love and pride. His worries about her receded into the back of his mind.
They continued downhill another few paces before setting foot on the road. Normally Merlin preferred to keep to the hidden ways over the hills. He checked on the ancient sacred shrines scattered throughout Britain as he traveled on Ardh Rhi Uther’s business — and his own. But to approach a caer, even one owned by a friend, required some ceremony and care.
He tugged Wren’s hand to the right onto the road rather than continue across the nearly trackless hills. They should approach formally through the front gate rather than slipping in through the postern like a servant or beggar — or even family.
Curyll shrugged at the change of direction and continued with them.
One hundred paces farther the road branched. The left-hand fork continued North to Deva. The right led up the tor to the fortress that commanded a view of the surrounding valley.
A bustle of activity upon the point of the crossroad attracted Merlin’s attention. Garoth, Lord Ector’s second son, directed half a dozen others in some kind of construction project.
Curious. What kind of shrine could they be erecting at a sacred crossroad when all that was needed was a clear space for travelers to leave offerings for safe passage?
“Curse these aging eyes, I can’t quite make out what they are doing!” Merlin moaned.
“You aren’t old yet, Da.” Wren squeezed his hand. “You just spend too much time squinting at old scrolls whenever you find them. Usually in bad light. I told you to light another lamp.”
“Always the little mother, Wren.” Merlin chuckled. “You look after me very well. But trust me, I am old enough to lose some of my keenness. This gray hair tells no lies.”
The little girl looked at him skeptically. Sometimes she was just too wise and observing for her age.
“Curse you, Mihail!” Garoth shouted at a roughly clad laborer.
Mihail dropped to his knees, cradling his left hand. He mumbled something Merlin could not hear. Garoth slammed his boot into the man’s ribs.
“If you aren’t fit to work, why does my father continue to feed and protect you?” Garoth kicked again. Red rose from his cheekbones to his forehead. Anger pulled his mouth down and made him narrow his eyes.
The other men backed away from Garoth and Mihail, revealing the intricately carved stone crog — a Christian cross — they had been erecting. It stood on its base tilted to the left and twisted so that it faced half-east rather than due south to the fork in the road.
Merlin froze in his tracks. The crog was a thing of beauty, worked by loving hands. It stood half again as tall as a tall man. A circle joined the four arms and a huge polished green stone had been set in the boss.
“Stop it! Stop it, stop it,” Wren cried. She wrenched her hand free of Merlin’s grasp and ran to Garoth. Fists beating wildly at his side, she began kicking him with her rag-wrapped feet. Her blows against Garoth’s thick boots and leggings must have hurt her more than her victim.
“What is this?” Merlin hurried forward.
Curyll made some inarticulate sounds of warning. Merlin didn’t have the time or patience to decipher what the boy needed to say.
But he knew a moment of disappointment mixed with fierce pride that his eight-year-old daughter had rushed to rescue the laborer when Curyll, training to be a marchog — a mounted warrior — hung back.
“Oh, it’s you,” Garoth sneered at Merlin and Curyll. He noticed the girl pounding on him. “Get back to work, all of you!” he shouted to the others who continued to ease distance between themselves and Garoth’s anger.
Merlin recognized a few of the laborers as tenants of Lord Ector. The three slighter built among them turned out to be Cai, Ector’s youngest son, Lancelot, and Bedewyr, foster boys near Curyll’s age.
And all three had the self-confidence to lead other warriors. Curyll wouldn’t do it because he could not speak. The situation needed a remedy soon.
“I thought Lord Ector honored the old ways,” Merlin said. He fought to keep his face impassive and betray none of the disappointment and... and hurt this crog represented.
Almost absently he grabbed Wren by her collar and pulled her back beside him. She continued to fuss and strain to reach Mihail.
“Well, the old ways didn’t get us what we need. You’ll find your welcome much cooler this year, Merlin — if not out in the cold. Father has a priest coming, and he wants to make sure the man is welcomed.” Garoth swung his left foot back in preparation for kicking Mihail again.
The hapless laborer continued to kneel in the road holding his left hand close against his body, supporting it with his right. Pain made his face pale and moist. He sank his teeth into his lower lip to avoid crying out.
In a move too fast and unanticipated for Garoth to counter, Merlin grabbed Garoth’s foot, lifting it high enough to threaten the younger man’s balance.
Wren neatly inserted herself between Garoth and his intended victim as she cooed soothing noises toward Mihail.
“New religions and old teach us to help the helpless and offer others the kindness we want for ourselves,” Merlin said. “Your father never taught you cruelty, Garoth.”
“But the creature won’t work. He’s clumsy and gave up at a crucial moment, ruining the job,” Garoth whined. He flailed his arms, trying to keep his balance on one foot. “Let go, you’re hurting me!” So like a bully to revert to childish whines of hurt rather than maintain a position of strength.
“Mihail’s wrist is broken, Garoth,” Merlin said. He assessed the swelling and awkward angle of the hand quickly. He thought he could reset it properly and relieve the man’s pain. But Mihail wouldn’t work for several weeks. If any of the bones had been crushed, he’d never work with that hand again.
“Then he can’t work, and he’s useless. I suppose you’ll insist we support him while he recovers and drains our resources,” Garoth sneered. He seemed to have found his balance on his own.
“You must protect and care for all of your workers as your father swore.” Merlin dropped Garoth’s foot. “Come, Wren, Curyll. Bring Mihail. I will see about setting those bones.”
Curyll gestured to his foster brothers, and they assembled beside him.
Merlin guided Mihail upright with a hand beneath his elbow. The laborer swayed and blanched with the effort of moving.
“You feel no pain.” Merlin pressed his left palm against Mihail’s eyes, concentrating on the message behind his words. A wave of tiredness swept over him. The moment he withdrew his hand from his patient he lost the aching fatigue.
Mihail straightened and smiled. He nodded his thanks and stepped on the road to follow his rescuers.
Merlin glanced at the others. Cai, Lancelot, and Bedewyr stared at him in awe. Two of the laborers made a fist extending their little and index finger in a ward against the evil eye. Garoth and the rest touched forehead, heart, and each shoulder. The Christian ward against evil.
That chilled Merlin more than mere superstition. Change had reached this remote corner of Britain sooner than he expected, and Curyll wasn’t ready to work with the change to become the leader he was destined to be.